


Just Like That

by compo67



Series: Palo Alto Verse [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Always Female Sam, Angst and Feels, Banter, Dean Sings, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Het, Light Angst, Misogyny, Multiple Orgasms, POV Sam Winchester, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-19 14:02:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12411696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: Sam didn’t take out loans, doesn’t study constantly, religiously haul her ass to class, network with professors and professionals, or earn straight A’s all in order to make friends and have sleepovers.Sam isn't at Stanford to fool around.And she's not fooling around with the rest of her life either.





	Just Like That

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mcdanno28](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcdanno28/gifts).



Most Stanford students on a Law School track aren’t interested in making friends. Most of them are there to study, study more, and study the best. Stanford never earned its reputation by excluding competition from amongst its students. The professors encourage it with warnings that there will always be some pissant lawyer out there claiming to be the best--and it’s their duty to prove those fuckers wrong. Even if those fuckers happen to also hold degrees from Stanford.

This has always worked just fine for Sam.

Her childhood taught her the meaning of competition. Maybe not exactly competition in the classroom, but competition out on the field. There were hunters and circles of hunters who tried to act like the toughest, smartest shit, especially the ones with more testosterone than brains. The calls for jobs--the legitimate, make-a-difference jobs--went to hunters who competed for the honor.

And Sam didn’t take out loans, doesn’t study constantly, religiously haul her ass to class, network with professors and professionals, or earn straight A’s all in order to make friends and have sleepovers.

“You don’t have a god damn social life,” Dean grumbled at her last week, when he failed to convince her to accompany him to a bar. “All you do is sit here, listen to your sad whiny man rock, and study.”

“Oh, so I’m supposed to fulfill your messed up dreams of sorority parties and pillow fights?”

“Hey. All I’m saying is that if you invited a few ladies over and had a pillow fight or two, maybe you’d be less freaking cranky all the time.”

“Uh huh. I’m sure there would be absolutely no benefit to you if that happened.”

“Well… you’d need a referee of course.”

“Get away from me.”

Dean is all the social life she can handle. Living with him for the past six months has been an interesting experience. Interesting and at some points incredibly irritating. He’s gotten better at doing dishes, not jacking off in the shower without cleaning up after, and not leaving packets of beef jerky everywhere. And he recently took on paying the water and electricity bills, so he’s assuming some additional responsibilities. He won’t say exactly where he gets his money, but he assures Sam that he’s doing honest work like she wanted. She believes that as much as pigs can fly.

Midterms are coming up and her time has become extremely limited. She showers every other day to save time, tying her hair back in a ponytail in order to avoid dealing with it. It’s getting cooler in Palo Alto, so along with the mocha lattes from Starbucks--with an extra shot for the boost--she’s taken to wearing layers. These layers are not off-the-runway stylish and she could give two fucks.

Today, working in the library, she huddles in her charcoal Stanford hoodie. They pay so much tuition and the library can’t seem to ever be the right temperature. Spirits would complain about the chill in the law library. Sam feels confident about her decision this morning to wear leggings, sweatpants, a sports bra, a t-shirt, and her hoodie. She is prepared for her environment.

A tinge of sadness hits her following that thought.

No one in the world would understand that sadness other than Dean.

But why should she expect anything but sadness when something reminds her of John? Sadness is better than anger. At least there’s that.

Sam takes a deep breath and messes with her hair. She takes the clip out that has been precariously holding everything up and revels in the aftermath. Her hair tumbles down, spills over her shoulders, and somehow manages not to form a messy, chaotic, limp nest. She showered this morning. Not because she necessarily wanted to. Sometimes showering can seem like the ultimate chore. But she didn’t want to go through an entire day of classes and interning and studying with Dean all over her.

As annoyed as she acted before getting into the shower, she enjoyed their morning.

Since it’s cooler, he’s been wearing his Henleys.

Lord help her with those Henleys that perfectly, simply outline the shape of him. Lean muscles. Firm curves. All that strength hidden underneath soft, warm fabric. The kind of strength that allows him to hold himself up for an extended amount of time while fucking into her. Missionary seems incredibly simplistic and vanilla, but it takes an incredible amount of upper body strength to do it right and follow through.

And he has Henleys in all different colors. Her favorite might just be that olive green one, which he wore last night and into this morning. It brings out his eyes, highlights the freckles on his jaw that lead down his neck and over his shoulders.

Fidgeting in her seat, Sam runs a hand through her hair.

Distraction, much?

She has a social life. It just involves one person and repeatedly having sex with that person as often as possible. And why shouldn’t she? This is the one person that knows her inside and out. He knows exactly where to press his fingers. He knows when to fuck her deeper and when to pull back. He knows how he should feel in between her thighs.

“Wow, Sam, are you blushing?”

Sam’s eyes snap open to see Jessica standing directly in front of her, leaning against the desk.

“Jess,” Sam blurts out, then immediately crosses her legs. “What… what do you want?”

“Way to greet your ex-girlfriend,” Jess huffs and takes a seat. “So cordial.”

Even if Sam hadn’t been blushing that much before, she is now. She hates surprises. She hates being caught off guard. And she hates unannounced visits from people who should know better.

“I would have said the same,” Sam snaps. “But I didn’t want to be rude like some.”

Jess gives her usual award-winning smile, then flips her curly blond hair over her right shoulder. Her dimples frame that smile and her lips shimmer from a fresh coat of lip gloss. She is every bit still a California beauty. Sam doesn’t know what kind of beauty she is. She didn’t really grow up anywhere long enough and backseat beauty definitely isn’t a compliment.

“I haven’t seen you around or heard from you in a while. Thought I’d check here and yep, here you are.”

“We broke up,” Sam mutters, flipping through her notes. “That means you don’t see me around or hear from me.”

“I see that you’re in your usual cheerful mood.”

“Sorry, did you need to hear it with a smile and a cartwheel?”

“Well, it wouldn’t hurt.”

“Jess. What do you want?”

“Nothing,” she answers, holding her hands up. “Nothing more than I was concerned and I thought maybe something had happened.”

“Your concern is angelic,” Sam says, her voice a total deadpan. “I’m alive and well. All good here. You can carry on.”

With a sigh, Jess stands up from the chair she was never invited to take. “Okay, okay, I get that you’re in study mode.” That seems to be the end of it. “But.” Dammit. “I just heard that you were seeing someone new and I thought I’d check to make sure you’re okay.”

Sam is almost certain that Jess didn’t so much hear about it as see it herself. She knew it hadn’t been a good idea to let Dean walk her to and from her night class last week. Sure, someone had been mugged near the building Sam’s class was in, but she didn’t need him to escort her. They argued about it for half an hour, had sex, argued more, and Dean just… before she left, he took her hand and held it to his mouth and asked if she wouldn’t mind letting him be wrong just this one time.

They walked from the apartment to the quad holding hands. Sam remembers blushing then.

It felt so… normal.

“So.” Jess leans against the desk again. “Who is he?”

Two words stamp themselves on Sam’s tongue. She clears her throat and shakes her head. “Are we in middle school? I’m fine, A-okay, peachy keen. You don’t need to or have to worry.”

Blue eyes refuse that answer. “I’m just concerned. You said you had bad experiences with guys.”

Another spark of sadness rattles around in Sam’s chest. Her feelings have a habit of peeling off of her like chipped paint, and sticking around despite wind and breeze and motion that should move them out. She often felt like a shell without its turtle instead of the other way around. And there were plenty of times she strongly identified with her motel surroundings. Dilapidated. Struggling. Facade.

But this doesn’t mean she appreciates anyone, even her ex-girlfriend, dredging this up.

Smiling, Sam laughs. “You’re so _funny_ , Jess. That’s why you’ll be a great nurse, always such a joker.”

“Rude,” Jess mutters, her arms folded over her chest. “You know, some people care about other people.”

“And some people just want to act like they care when really, they just want to stick their nose in some people’s business.”

“This? This is why we broke up.”

“No. This is why we stopped talking.” Sam stretches and props her feet up on the desk. She holds her arms out at her sides. “So, we done here? Or you have some more bullshit questions and concerns to ask that I won’t answer?”

“Lawyer,” Jess snips, turns, and walks off.

Out of respect for the library, Sam takes her feet off the desk once Jess gets out of sight.

Sam returns to her textbooks and notes. “Civilian,” Sam grumbles.

 

For years, Sam didn’t understand her father and brother’s obsessions with cassette tapes and vinyl records. Granted, all the Impala could play were eight-tracks, and all they could afford were tape players, but neither of those things deserved a sense of reverence or worship.

Some women Sam’s age talk about turning into their mothers.

At a record shop, Sam worries she may be turning into her father.

In between CO and CR, Sam overhears a dude bro explain to his dude bro companion why vinyl is so great. Half of what dude bro has been explaining is utter bullshit, which Sam tolerates just because there’s no point in doing anything else. Her time is better spent focusing on the new Coltrane records that have come in. Laken told her they had an incredible collection come in from an estate sale last night and she wants to be the first to browse through whatever the staff put out from it since then.

Any clean copy of Afro Blue Impressions would make her week. Month. Year. Possibly decade.

“See, chicks don’t know great vinyl,” dude bro whispers. “D-cup probably thinks Coltrane is cool.”

So.

Being on birth control again has made Sam crankier for several reasons. One, while her acne has disappeared, the mood swings are a haunting rollercoaster of fun for the entire apartment. Two, bloating all day, all night. Three, hunger and cravings that have only benefited the Thai restaurant two blocks over. Four, weight gain. And not just around her middle or thighs weight gain, which are actually somewhat manageable. But at least five pounds went straight to her chest. This left her with nothing but sports bras and tank tops to wear for a week until she gave in and bought new bras. But she had to buy new bras and that--that pissed her off. Because it’s not just a matter of walking into a store and selecting a cute bra and walking out five minutes later. It’s an entire afternoon of awkwardly getting measured and fitted and trying on things that look cute but don’t fit or offer any support. It’s reminding the salesperson that she does not need to spend three hundred dollars on a single bra and she certainly does not need every single bra brought for her to try on to be made out of delicate lace. But at the same time, she does not need every other bra brought for her to try on to be made out of industrial, reinforced sheet metal.

All her shirts fit weird. Her lower back hurts more. This has been culminating into the perfect storm.

Sam stands on her toes and looks over at dude bro and dude bro number two who has been entirely complicit and therefore also guilty.

“That was some sweet bullshit you fed your friend, three inch dick.” She keeps her voice steady, clear, and light. “If you knew anything about anything, you’d know that at the beginning of a LP, on those outer grooves, the audio signal is cut across a relatively long section of vinyl and the longer a signal is spread out, the higher the quality--contrary to the flaming garbage that came out of your maggot-infested mouth. And when you get to those shorter grooves near the spindle hold, the signal is transferred to a much shorter section. The closer together, the more dramatic curve of the groove, which can affect the needle’s ability to track and read information accurately. That’s why the best musicians like Coltrane, who will come back from jazz heaven on the day you die just to piss on your miserable grave, all put the louder, bass-heavy tracks at the front and the softer tracks on the end of programs. But you don’t know shit. I’m genuinely surprised you know the alphabet up to D. Actually, now that I get a good look at you, I’m not that surprised since your D is probably all you play with when you listen to your pathetic copies of Kenny G.”

Predictably, dude bro and dude bro lite make a few more misogynistic comments and threaten some kind of vague physical action. They even try to stand taller and puff out their chests like the manly men they are. Sam invites them to make good on their threats. They can even go outside if they want. And just to make things fair, she’ll fight both of them at the same time, one hand behind her back. She wouldn’t want to have too much of an advantage over them.

More misogyny. More talk. More incredibly vague threats.

Sam moves towards them. The comments ramp up.

Faster than a hipster buying an overpriced Wilco record, Sam breaks both their noses. Once dude bros leave the store, she apologizes to Laken for the blood on the floor.

“That’s why we got hardwood floors a while back,” Laken says with a smile. “I’ll get the mop.”

“I can mop it up,” Sam insists.

“Nah, just watch the register for me. About time I do some work around here.”

While Laken walks to the back for the mop, Sam takes the caution floor is wet sign from behind the counter and props it up near the site of bloodshed. Damn, it felt good to break some noses. She really needed to let off some steam. She should probably do that at the gym or a shooting range, but there’s nothing like real world experience.

The bell above the door sounds out as a customer enters. She expects it to be the dude bros back for more punishment like the masochists they are, so she looks up from where she left off in between CO and CR.

Dean spots her and shakes his head.

“All I have to do to find you is follow the trail of broken noses. The hell happened? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I don’t see Afro Blue.”

“So you broke some noses?”

“Something like that.”

“Sure. That sounds reasonable.” He starts looking through A to Al. “Glad you got it out of your system before I showed up.”

“Would you ever refer to a woman by her cup size?”

Without pausing his search, Dean answers, “Hell no. Does it look like I want my ass kicked?”

Satisfied, Sam nods. She finds a few good records, but no Afro Blue. This is just as well since she has to pay rent in a few days and isn’t exactly rolling in money. Her internship pays, but it doesn’t pay that well.

“Pizza?” She chooses a record to buy. “Or Thai?”

Dean pushes back the records he’s looked through into their upright position. “Burgers?”

“Maybe.”

“You wanna try going out tonight and having some fun? Or was breaking noses all the fun you can handle for today?”

Sam pays for her new record and apologizes again to Laken, who simply waves her off about the entire thing. Dean buys a new needle for Sam’s turntable. He takes the tote bag from her and carries it, opens the door and holds it open for her. Outside, as they walk back to the apartment, she notices his clothing options for the day. While she went with a long-sleeve, purple shirt and yoga pants, he went for a blank Henley and dark jeans.

He looks good.

Sounds good.

Feels good when he rests his left hand on her waist as they walk, steps in sync.

California sunshine has done him a world of good. He’s got the slightest hint of a tan. He isn’t as thin or weathered as when he first arrived. He may not be on birth control, but he’s filled out a bit more. He’s either replaced or added clothes little by little into the drawers she set aside for him. And his shoes have a spot next to her shoes when they get back to the apartment.

She doesn’t go to class to make friends.

“My doctor says I’m lacking Vitamin U.”

“Stop,” Sam laughs. “Or you’re next for a broken nose today.”

“C’mon. I’m not staring at your boobs. I’m staring at your heart.”

“Ughhhhhh.”

“Do you work at Starbucks? Cause I like you a latte.”

“Nope.”

“Wait, wait, wait. Are you from Tennessee?”

“...”

“Because you’re the only ten-I-see.”

“Get away from me.”

“If this bar is a meat market, you must be the prime rib.”

“Gross!”

“Baby, if you were words on a page, you’d be the fine print.”

“Gag.”

“I’m an organ donor and I’d like to give you my heart.”

“I’ll take your kidneys.”

“I play the field and it looks like I just hit a home run with you.”

“Dean!”

“If you were a Transformer, you’d be Optimus Fine.”

“Ughhhhh stop!”

“If you were a booger, I’d pick you first.”

Sam punches Dean on the shoulder. She sits down by her turntable and replaces the needle. “If you’ve used any of those on anyone, I’m ashamed to know you.”

Dean plops down on the floor in front of her. He grins from ear to ear like a kid. “They’re working on you right now, Sammy.”

“No,” she quips and sticks her foot out in order to toe his chest. “They are most definitely not.”

He pokes at the sole of her feet, through her striped purple sock. “It’s nice to see you laugh.”

“I laugh.” Which record to put on? Something to please her or him? She flips through the stack of records nearby. “I laugh plenty.”

“I mean,” Dean clarifies, uncaring that her foot is in his face, “not in a maniacal, take over the world kind of way.”

“You’re asking way too much.”

“Don’t play more Matt Nathanson. I beg you.”

“I will play what I want, Dean. When you pay the rent, then you can play whatever you want.”

Dean starts massaging her foot, which actually feels really good. Really good in a way that Sam melts a little bit in a totally unexpected way. She didn’t know she could carry so much stress in her feet. Dean focuses on a particular spot without applying too much pressure. That might as well be his motto.

Plush pink lips purse together for a moment. Dean takes a deep breath in and lets it out slow. “Actually, Sam, I wanted to talk to you about that.”

“About rent?”

“Yeah.”

“What about it?” Her tone sounds harsher than she meant it.

Dean keeps massaging her foot, though his hands slow in reaction to her tone. “Easy,” he murmurs. “I just wanna know if you’d consider… well, letting me pay rent this month.”

Sam holds a record album against her chest and looks directly at Dean. “What? Why?”

“Well, I… I got the money and I think it’s about time that I help with the rent.”

“What kind of gig are you working? How can you afford this?”

“Hey, I got it. It’s okay.”

“I don’t want you to keep hustling pool, Dean.”

“I’m not. Sam.” He stops massaging her foot. “Look, I promise I’m working a real job. It’s not set in stone yet so I don’t wanna jinx it, okay? For now, I just wanna pay the rent.”

A twinge of anxiety works through her chest and into her stomach. “What are you really trying to do?”

“Nothing. Just helping out.”

“Why.”

“Sheesh,” Dean groans and rolls his eyes. “I forget that lawyers gotta ask twenty questions.”

“Now that you remember, tell me why.”

“Play a different record.”

“What?’

“Play that record. The one with the orange cover. Play that last track.”

The record requested isn’t CCR or Zepelin or REO Speedwagon, which puzzles Sam. It’s contemporary. It’s a blend of country, Americana, classic soul, and blues. It’s plenty of guitar, but even more piano and drums. It’s the combination of a slight drawl, a deep voice, gruff phrasing, and steady, rhythmic pushes. It’s the organ in the background of a ballad and lyrics in the spotlight.

It’s music Dean can sing to while he’s got his hands on both of Sam’s feet.

He lets the musician start the song.

Then jumps in, seamless and slow.

“Would it take flowers? Red roses from vines? Would it take diamonds? To let you know you are mine.” His hands squeeze Sam’s ankles. “I’ll take you dancing, and sweep you off your feet. What do you need to know you’re the only one, one for me?”

His voice is hushed not because it needs to be, but because he prefers it that way against the music.

“I could make you smile, give you all your dreams. I’d give everythin’ to make you love me.”

Sam inhales that twang and the decadent, languid chord progressions.

“What words can I say? Tell me, what can I do? Know that I am. And I’ll give it to you.” Drums puncture each set of words. “What would it take, to make you love me?”

The needle glides along the record smooth as wine.

For a few seconds after the song ends, the turntable plays the familiar and comforting white noise of an album ending. Which could also be the white noise just before an album begins.

Dean smiles and shrugs. He pats Sam’s knees.

There are days where Sam wakes up and expects to see chipping paint and unknown yellow stains on the walls by her bed. There are days where she studies and feels like it’s all pointless. Or the plans her advisor and profressors outline for Law School that feel incredibly foreign and wrong. There are long mornings, afternoons, evenings, and nights still where she feels out of place. Ill-suited. Ill-fiting. Ill.

She isn’t beyond feeling too short, too plain, too boring, too common, too awkward, too uninterested, too fixated, too impatient, too limited, too cheated out of something she can’t place into words.

Dean being here doesn’t make any of that completely go away.

Sam may identify with paint chips. Dean identifies with the wall from which the paint chips fall.

“Been six months since I unpacked,” Dean says. His voice doesn’t startle her out of her thoughts. It just threads into them. “Say something, Sam. You’re killing me.”

People on campus know Sam. People from her program, her classes, her internship. They know her as this Political Science major with a double minor in Psychology and Spanish. They know her in one dimension. Maybe Jess got to know her in two.

The boy holding her feet has always known her in one, two, three, and four.

Sam slides down from the couch to the floor. She sits across from Dean for a second.

Then she wraps her arms around him as tight as humanly possible. He hugs her back, hands over her shoulder blades, chest to chest. Kisses start in a rush. Their teeth clash, hands wander, and clothes start to tug away and disappear.

It isn’t long before her bra presses against his chest.

And not long after that that Dean’s right hand sneaks behind to unhook it.

She gives him ten seconds, then ten more.

“The fuck?” Dean snorts. “What the hell do you have on?”

“It’s new,” Sam laughs.

“Yeah, I got that when I saw it.”

“You’ve memorized my bras, what a compliment.”

“I’m a connoseuir of your bras.”

“How sweet. And you’re still doing it wrong.”

“Hang on, I’ll get some scissors.”

“Do that and I’ll break your nose! I paid sixty bucks for this bra.”

“Sixty bucks? For a bra you can’t take off?”

“Correction.” Sam reaches back with her right hand. “ _You_ can’t take it off.” In seconds, she unclasps the offensive garment, but allows Dean to take it off and toss it onto the couch.

He doesn’t make any mention of the stretch marks on either side of her breasts. His expression doesn’t reflect any sense of hesitation or reluctance. All he does is what he usually does--dive face first into her tits. She laughs, squeals, and fights him off as he yells how he never wants to leave this one spot. But that’s not true, because he says the same thing when he goes down on her, eats her out, and can’t get enough of the noises she makes all the while.

If anyone ever had a mouth for oral sex, it’s Dean.

And he isn’t shy about it.

Sam lies on her yoga mat, flat on her back, hips lifted and tilted up for Dean to suck at her clit. He kisses it with a sweetness only he can bring. His tongue plays a game of figure eights and letters and swirls and drags and long, slow licks. He slurps and gasps and groans--head between her legs. Plump, plush, pink, slick lips seal themselves over her clit.

He sucks her off the same way she would.

Wet, messy, and eager.

Freckled fingers tentatively press inside her. The first finger to slip in does so with a loud, wet squelch. Sam’s hips buck. She lets out a moan and a handful of unintelligble words. The second finger causes her to tug at Dean’s hair and push her hips harder against his face. Only when he curls both fingers, laps at her clit, and moans, does she let go of his hair in an attempt to silence her noise.

They are sweat and heat and all white knuckled grip.

His stubble scratches the inside of her thighs.

He pauses, panting, drenched, and licking his lips. He pulls his fingers out, starts to lick them clean, and she grabs him by the shoulders to bring him in for a deep, desperate kiss. Sam bumps their foreheads together and closes her eyes, sitting up, basking in Dean’s hands now on her chest. He rubs his thumbs over each nipple, holds her breasts firm in his palms, and starts to kiss the route that starts at her throat.

Whimpering, Sam doesn’t wait. She places her left hand over his right and pushes her breast near his mouth. Green eyes look up for a brief moment before closing to focus. Dean takes her nipple into his mouth and works it just like her clit, except here, he can use his teeth.

Sam melts.

And cries out the second Dean gives a hard grope to her ass.

She could be in sweatpants, or a sundress, or jeans, or nothing but his button down shirts and he’d still kiss, grope, fuck her with the sweetest intensity.

Like a fresh needle on a high quality record, they fit together.

And just like that, she gives him her love and he gives it right back.

They climb onto the couch. She kisses him in a way only he deserves. Just like that. Hands all over. The exciting feeling of his cock against her ass, rubbing, grinding, creating friction.

Sam changes their position at the last second.

She takes him from behind. They both kneel on the couch, holding onto the cushions or the arm. His cock hangs heavy and hard and flushed, the bloated tip nudged right against her clit. She feels everything--with or without her eyes open. The first inch of his cock pushes in without resistance. Sam backs her ass up towards his hips.

“Fuck,” Dean grits out, nose to the back of her neck. “You’re so wet, Sam.”

All around his cock, she drenches him.

He reaches down and finds her clit again. He starts flicking her thumb over it the second he buries his cock completely inside. Sam’s eyes water.

“Fuck it,” she shouts. “Fuck it, fuck it, oh---”

Just like that.

Just like this.

Dean fucks her hard, deep, and his.

Fingers on her clit, cock pounding against the exact right spot, Sam comes, hard, deep, and his. She tosses her head back, resting against the crook of Dean’s shoulder, and releases a guttural, instinctive noise. Her breasts ache and bounce from the force of her shout.

“Don’t stop,” she prays. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop. Just like that. Just like… Dean!”

“Sam,” he calls back. “Sam, Sam, Sam…”

“Ahh, oh god, I’m coming. I’m… nnn…” His cock hits the right spot at the right time and she clenches and gasps and comes all over him a one overwhelming gush. He moves his hand from her clit to her breasts, squeezes, then bites down on her neck. His thrusts slow. He pulls back. Winds down.

The living room picks up the scent of come and sweat.

Sam’s shoulders shake.

Dean leans their hips back. He wraps one arm around her chest, then with his free hand fingers her clit one more time. Boneless, pliable, and buzzed, Sam reaches back. He kisses her fingers and palms, tongue teasing, lips still slick.

Then he bends them both over--his chest to her back, hip to hip--and fucks her all base and beat. Sweat and heat. Needle and groove.

People have asked them if they’re close.

Those were people who didn’t know better.

He comes inside her, hands on the couch in a white-knuckled grip. He fills her, marks her up, echoes all of her to her right back.

Their breaths come out raspy and ragged.

Dean brushes her hair away from her neck and kisses over the bite mark he left.

Things are inexplicably simple just like this.

 

Sam listens to the rest of the album Dean chose while she soaks in the tub.

Pleasantly sore, she basks in the warm water and epsom salts. After a few minutes, she calls out for assistance. Dean emerges from their bedroom, naked still from his shower before her bath.

“You rang?”

“I need more hot water,” she whines. “Deeeeean, I need more hot water.”

“Alright, alright, calm your tits.”

“My tits are never calm.”

“I… I’d have to agree with that.”

“Good. Now I need something else.”

“Tough shit, Sammy. Get it yourself.”

“Dean!”

“What?! I just wanna sleep.”

“Ugh. Typical. You just wanna roll over and sleep.”

“After that workout? Yes. I think any rational human being would want to roll over and sleep. Not that you let me without taking a shower.”

“I just changed the sheets yesterday and I don’t want you stinking the bed up.”

“Do you know how toxic you get after one of your bean burritos? Do you hear me say anything about stinking the place up?”

“Too bad so sad. Fetch me my blue dress.”

“You’re pushing it, Sam. You have a million blue dresses.”

“The one with the white trim.”

“This one?”

“That’s yellow.”

“Do I care?”

“Yes!”

“Okay, okay. Here.”

“That’s more like it. Now go choose some undergarments for me to wear.”

“Undergarments like a thong and some pasties?”

“It’s better than the sock you put in your briefs.”

“I do not put a sock in my briefs!”

“Sure, sure, yeah, yeah.”

“I don’t.”

“Stop pouting and hurry up.”

“For what?”

“We’re going out.”

“Uh huh. And what made you change your mind?”

Sam smiles and splashes water at Dean. “For our six month anniversary, you jerk.”

Everything feels a lot less complicated after just like that.

**Author's Note:**

> this is for my beta T, who is wonderful and supportive. hope you enjoy!
> 
> also, a nice change of pace to get back into this verse. this is the only het i truly enjoy writing. i love always a girl!Sam. songs here are from anderson east, with lyrics from "what would it take" and snippets/inspiration from "all on my mind."
> 
> comments are love!


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